


The Opposite of Silence

by lousy_science



Category: Creed (2015), Creed - Fandom, Rocky Series (Movies)
Genre: Coming of Age, Gen, Music, Philadelphia, Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:12:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8134949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: For six months in 2001, Bianca didn't sing a note. A story about how Bianca learned to cope with her hearing loss set before Creed, back when she was fighting herself.  Title inspired by Franco of Cologne, one of the pioneers of musical notation and a pretty dope guy for a thirteenth-century monk.





	

Time is the measure of actual sound as well as of the opposite, its omission.  
—  Franco of Cologne

 

Bianca still remembered how excited she’d been to start a new millennium. She’d been thirteen for five months and could feel the world shift into something new. This was the future, and Philly was the right place to be: Will Smith was the biggest star in the world. Iverson had his first NBA scoring title. “You Got Me” won a Grammy.

Within a year, the future felt far too close. Her hearing loss was progressive, chronic, irreversible. All these big words - future words - but more hopeless than she’d imagined. Bianca’s dreams used to be about jetpacks, space stations, underwater cities, and making machines to send out songs into the galaxies. Instead, her world was getting smaller, with loss after loss. This wasn’t what she had understood from her Pop’s Sun Ra albums.

Before that year, music had been the one thing that always brought her family together. Even though Grandma Jones and Mom didn’t get along at all, and Pop would take Bianca and her brother Antony over there alone after church, their Mom going home separately, Bianca knew she could get all of them in a room together for one of her piano recitals or choir performances. When her Pop parked outside her Grandma’s house, Bianca would rush out of the car to make a beeline for the tiny piano that was kept under the coffee table just for her. When she got home she would sing to her Mom the song she’d made up on it. She’d learned that it was better to sing to her than to repeat any of the things Grandma and Pops said when she was around there.

Bianca had always woken up with a song in her head. It was there before she had the first thought of the day. Grandma Jones used to say she could sing before she could talk, which upset her Mom for some reason. But then almost everything Grandma Jones said about her grandchildren to her daughter-in-law upset her, whether it was her wish for Anthony to become a preacher or that Bianca’s braids weren’t done neatly. What mattered to Bianca wasn’t the fights between her parents after Sunday lunch at Grandma’s, it was that at both homes there were instruments for her to play and a welcome audience for whatever she wanted to sing.

That toy piano was the first instrument she ever felt complete ownership of. It had been bought just for her, not like the xylophone set or bongo drum she had to steal off of her brother. Even after she got her Casio keyboard on her eleventh birthday, that piano was the first position in her personal orchestra.

When they moved Grandma to the assisted living center, Bianca had helped pack the old house up, not noticing that her fool of an uncle had moved the box with the piano into the Goodwill donations stack. It wasn’t until the end of the day that she discovered that it was gone.

Her Grandma told her not to cry over material things, and for once her mother agreed with her, but Bianca was inconsolable. She threw herself down on the strip of lawn next to the curb where the moving van was parked and beat the ground in a rage of tears and recriminations, even though she was fourteen years old, not four. Uncle Bryan had the sense to look shamefaced about it.

That spring she had won a distinction in her music class. Alicia Keys was about to drop her first album and suddenly all the girls in Bianca’s school wanted to learn the piano. Bianca had gone into her recital feeling worlds ahead of all of them, and that the trophy she was given by her teacher was rightfully hers. Grandma Jones noticed.

“You’re being prideful. I saw you up on that stage, rolling your eyes when the Monroe girl was playing her piece. No good work can come out of a narrow mind.”

Bianca had rolled her eyes when Renee Monroe was plunking out some choppy Mozart. Renee used to sneer at Bianca during gym class and always had on the freshest sneakers, the newest styles. She didn’t belong on the same stage as Bianca, not when there was a piano there. Her Grandma should have heard that for herself.

That same day her mom sat her down, thinking Bianca was quiet because she happy over her performance, not because she felt hurt.

“Bee, we have to talk about what Dr. Oyeyemi said. That the diagnosis is final.”

They’d gone to see the doctor the month before. Bianca had barely paid attention. She’d been to so many specialists; she’d taught herself to let the melodies in her head take over her while they droned on and poked her ears with their evil little devices. Dr. Oyeyemi had been another audiologist, a word Bianca liked, and unlike most of the health professionals she’d been examined by, this one talked straight to Bianca. Asked her if she understood what progressive hearing loss meant.

Bianca had nodded back to her as sharply as she could. She was going to cut the question in half with her head, split the _hearing_ part from the _loss_ part. It was a trick she had done again and again in various doctor’s offices.

Sitting in front of her Mom in one of the first summer evenings, Bianca tried to do it again. Split the truth in half. Take the pride from the recital without her Grandma’s telling-off. Take the Beethoven sheet music from the library without the know-it-all librarian wanting to talk about his deafness. She didn’t want to know he’d been deaf. She never wanted to think how he felt when he pressed down a key and didn’t hear a note in return.

Her teachers were beginning to say things like _scholarships_ and _potential_ , but her Mom was using words like _health insurance_ and _disability_. There were doors being opened up into her future, but the problem was some of them led to stages, and others to hearing clinics. And eventually there was one door that would take her to a room she would have to live in the rest of her life. Where her music could only live inside her head.

Bianca didn’t cry. She didn’t say anything except, “Can I go now?”

When she heard the sigh that her Mom used whenever she was disappointed with one of her children, she went to her room and took the trophy from the recital off of the dresser and stuck it in a shoebox in her wardrobe. For the next six months she didn’t sing a note.

No more choir practice. No hanging out down at the record store, or bugging her brother to download MP3s for her on his college computer.

Her Grandma had been right. Performing had made her feel different, special, better than everyone else. It was something more like diving, except it kept feeling like the first time, when you don’t know how the water’s going to feel as you point your whole body down into it like a knife. A rush like a airplane taking off, like breathing in a lungful of neon light.

That was how she wanted _different_ to feel. Not like a light being turned off. Not like a piece of plastic and wires stuck in her ear like she was an invalid. The huge book of sign language terms her parents had bought her went into the wardrobe, too, where she didn’t have to see it.

She quit choir by not showing up to the next practice. The church’s choral leader, a slight, unassuming woman called Miss Bensimmons, came around to their house to find out if Bianca was alright. Bianca let her mother get the door, ignoring the request for her to come out, keeping her eyes on the game of Mario Kart she was playing in the living room. After a few minutes the two women came in, and Bianca could feel her mother’s confusion and fury and Mrs. Bensimmon’s mousy politeness.

“Bianca, turn that off, and explain to us why you weren’t at choir today.”

Bianca kept playing. “I’m not going anymore. I don’t believe in God and think it’s a waste of time.”

It didn’t take much, she found out, to make Miss Bensimmons cry, or to get her Nintendo confiscated until further notice. Bianca figured the trade-off was worth it. She left the house that night for a walk.

When her parents argued with her now, Bianca just left. She had gotten the hang of walking away, whenever Mom brought up the appointment to get her hearing aid fitted, or if her Pop wanted to know why she still wasn’t going to rehearsal. Let them ask questions, she thought, and not hear the answers. They could get their own hearing aids. As far as Bianca was concerned, the answer was the slamming of the door behind her.

Walking was the best way to use up time. It made time pinch and ache, but not in her heart, in her legs and feet, on her face when the wind bit her, but she could keep going and spite time with every step. She’d never chosen this deadline, and she didn’t want it. So she walked on. Her head filled up with violence in the place of melodies.

Imagining herself as part of a massive tribe of nomads, she’d keep her eyes on the skyline, turning the buildings into distant mountains. This people she was part of, they hadn’t chosen to walk, they’d been forced to as the land grew hostile (she filled in the backstory with comic book panels of nuclear war and destruction), and carried an entire city on their backs. When someone grew too weak, or sick, or old, to go on, they were given a bottle of water and left behind. Bianca imagined herself at the front of the march, with the warriors, taking the full brunt of the incoming winds.

She looked at the jagged hulking buildings and imagined she was living underwater, where sound found it harder to reach her, and instead of this frustrating, sore and fallible body she had scales and fins, silver and cool blooded.

Sometimes her Pop would get her Grandma on the phone to tell her off. “Your voice is God’s gift. And gifts come with responsibility, Bianca.”

Her voice would sound small and far away from the handset he held out to her. Bianca would stand there, her head shaking _no_ , refusing to take it from him. While she was just a voice on the phone, Bianca could weather her Grandmother’s disapproval. She stopped visiting her at the care home, which she had hated from the first time she’d seen it. It had been too small to fit even a tiny piano, and it made her think of more lost things, and Bianca found it easier just to walk.

Still, songs were everywhere she went. It was infuriating. Going past a construction site she’d zoom in on the yellow claw pulling down a concrete wall and think about being made of concrete and fighting off robot enemies. But even in the crunch of metal on rock there was a beat, a buzz, a sliver of another sound hidden inside it.

On Saturdays she bagged groceries at the market and tried to resist the rhythms of boxes and tins. Once her shift was over she’d walk as long as it took to get her stomach growling. There was a burger place that the kids from school hung out in, the kind of kids who weren’t in choir or doing extra credit classes, and she’d go there and eat greasy cheeseburgers and bundles of oily fries. When people handed around new issues of _Vibe_ and _The Source_ she’d pass them on, refusing to look at the music news, pretending she didn’t care about what album was about to drop or what all-ages gigs were happening downtown.

On Sundays, instead of church she’d go around to her boyfriend Demetrius’s place to smoke up and read his comic books. They were dating, she figured, but Demetrius was quiet and didn’t require her to talk, which suited Bianca. The stories in his comics always annoyed her, but she liked the landscapes of other planets and space stations, places high above everyone else. It would be still then, just her and Demetrius. Sometimes they’d hold hands and watch anime together. But when his crew came around, the stereo would go on, loud and booming, and Bianca would curl into the beanbag and not say much to anyone. Sometimes they would play video games, and Bianca knew there was something wrong with the TV’s sound because the beeps were off, the victory lap jingle was atonal and made her bones rattle like fingernails on a chalkboard.  
  
Sometimes she and Demetrius kissed, but only when they were high. His hands would fumble with her bra until she’d get annoyed and reach back to take it off herself. Bianca could never stand people not doing things properly. Her boldness seemed to upset him, and he never looked at her breasts for long, casting his eyes down over them then to the floor, then spinning around to pick up the game console or a copy of X-Men. Whenever it happened it made Bianca feel like a lump of concrete, hard and cold.

 

“You taking that music over to the Cheng girl tonight? You better, Bianca, her mother keeps calling me and asking where it is.”

Isabelle Cheng had been Bianca’s biggest rival in piano classes. A year and a half younger than Bianca, she still wore her hair in pigtails, tucked behind her perfect, working ears. Bianca had tutored her last summer, but she had faded on Isabelle like she faded on everyone connected to music.

“Answer me, young lady. This is about personal responsibility.”

Bianca says no. No. _No_. She says it over and over, shouts it, screaming so loud her throat aches, wanting to make the word ring in her Mom’s ears so that she finally stops asking Bianca to do anything.

Walking out on her parents is one thing, but screaming like that was new. Bianca backed away, her voice suddenly gone, and a deep silence stuck in the air. The windows were open, and the neighbours would’ve heard that. Her Pop had just gotten back in. He would’ve heard her. Her mother stood like a statue, and Bianca realised she had an expression on her face that was entirely new to Bianca. That her Mom felt differently towards her daughter than she had previously, that Bianca had used up the last of her passes, maybe used up some of her love. That there was something colder and more remote between them now that Bianca had done this.

Bianca ran this time. She whipped down the street, trying not to hear the slap of her soles on the pavement.  
Her lungs hurt and her legs are about to give way, but what slows Bianca down the most are the tears in her eyes. She walks, limping slightly on a weakened ankle, trailing from street to street. The streets feel sinister in a way they never had before. All the warnings she’d gotten about going out alone started to feel like prophecies. Car horns honked at her as she crossed roads without looking, their engines growling like hungry tigers waiting to devour her.

Eventually she sank down to sit down on a curb, dew-damp grass under her jeans. The house in front of her cast a familiar silhouette against the night sky. She’d ended up at her Grandma’s old street. Two driveways along was the spot where she’d first ridden a bike, and Bianca could see the dip in the road where she’d first fallen off of a bike. She tried to remember why she’d ever decided to get back up again.

“Excuse me? Excuse me?”

The voice was outraged, from the sound of it. Bianca thought she recognised it.

“You, girl! Yes, it is you.”

Mrs. Warner had lived across the road from her Grandma as long as Bianca could remember. She and her brother used to have to visit her after church, to be inspected, instructed, and given Bible tracts. Sometimes they would have to sit there while Grandma and Mrs. Warner discussed the day’s sermon in what seemed like endless detail. Mrs. Warner didn’t believe in giving children sugar, so they would be given carrot sticks. Anthony once hid his down the back of the couch.

Bianca walked back over the road with Mrs. Warner, who had her arm in a tight grip. In the back of her mind she thought, I’m finally getting in trouble for those carrot sticks.

Inside, the front room was just as Bianca remembered it, but at a different, adult scale. The bloody crucifix statue that sat on a side table was still there, but it was only about a foot high. Bianca had always thought it was scary, but tonight the desperate expression on Jesus’s face looked more human than she’d ever considered before.

When Bianca sat down at the kitchen table, Mrs. Warner made her tea, and let Bianca put in as much sugar as she wanted. She was wearing a housecoat over a pristine white nightgown, and Bianca wished that she was dressed in her Sunday best, not raggedy jeans and a Nirvana t-shirt. When she got up from her chair Bianca remembered why they’d stopped coming to Mrs. Warner’s house. One of the Sundays here Mrs. Warner had been talking about a faith healer who was visiting the area. Bianca had been chewing her carrot extra slow and not paying much attention, but she heard her name and looked up to see her Grandma’s expression, and knew something serious had happened when she heard her say to Mrs. Warner, “No, we will not consider taking Bianca there. Thank you for your prayers on the child’s behalf, but the family will take care of her ourselves.”

She heard her mother’s voice at the other end of Mrs. Warner’s phone. “It’s late,” Mrs. Warner was saying. “She can stay here. I will get Claudia’s room made up.”

Claudia had been Mrs. Warner’s daughter. Bianca wished she’d listened to the full story when her parents had discussed it. All she knew was that she’d been a college freshman when a drunk driver had killed her, and that Mrs. Warner’s husband had a stroke soon after. That was, Bianca thought, good enough reason to go to a faith healer.

Sitting across the table from her, Bianca poured another cup of tea with shaky hands. “Bianca,” Mrs. Warner asked. “Has anyone ever done your colors?”

 

Bianca wished that just once in all those Sunday visits she had thought to ask to use the Warner’s bathroom. It was one of the most beautiful places she had ever been in.

Mrs. Warner had been an Avon Lady, and her white and gold bathroom was filled with Avon products. It was like sitting inside a jewel case, everything shiny and clean, and Bianca perched on a filigree gold stool at the sink and watched in the triple mirrors as Mrs. Warner’s hands moved over her face with pink puffs of cotton wool.

Her Grandma had always kept plenty of Avon in her bathroom, and the sight of the familiar products carefully lined up reminded Bianca of her. Grandma had kept buying from Mrs. Warner, even after the faith healer incident, saying to her Pop, “She’s a good woman, under it all. Alphonse couldn’t work after he had the stoke. So she packed up her make-up case and started selling.”

Bianca sat while Mrs. Warner, whose first name was Jacinda, washed her face, then showed her a cleansing routine. “This is what I used to do. To ten, twenty women a day sometimes.”  
Bianca gave a tiny nod.  
“First, you cleanse, then tone. Then your lotion.”  
She’d cleaned off all the askew green eyeliner Bianca had scratched on that morning, and showed her how to line her eyes properly. Her face was cupped in Mrs. Warner’s hands and mapped out in ways Bianca hadn’t ever understood before. She learned about foundation matching, scrubbing her lips to get rid of dry skin, and how important the arch of an eyebrow was to your expression.

Mrs. Warner pulled out flat cases that snapped open to reveal rainbow palettes, unfolding the trays like butterfly wings and explaining color theory to her.  
“Don’t have your eyes fight with your lips for people’s notice. If you do a heavy eye, you must keep your lip neutral and soft.” Bianca thought of counterpoint and syncopation.

When she was finished, she had Bianca stand up and look in the full length mirror that was hung behind the door. Bianca stared. Her eyelashes seemed miles long and covered in stardust, her cheeks had new facets, and for once her chin didn’t annoy her.  
“Look at that girl. She’s growing into a woman, hmmm?”  
Bianca nodded back, feeling a little lost in her own face.  
Mrs. Warner patted the side of Bianca’s arm, still looking stern.

She stayed with Mrs. Warner for the next few days. After asking permission to use the phone she called Dr. Oyeyemi to make a follow-up appointment. In the tiny back yard she pulled out the weeds that had sprung up between the neat paving stones and scrubbed down the pathway with sudsy water. While working she discovered that there's a stillness in her head that’s as good as a song.

Her mother called to tell Bianca that Anthony is coming back from college on the weekend, and there will be a cookout on Sunday. Mrs. Warner took her into the kitchen and showed her how to make a rhubarb pie.

That Sunday they walked together to church and back to the Warner house, waiting for Bianca’s mom to pick them up. Bianca sat in the backseat with the pie balanced on her lap, listening to Mrs. Warner talk about the service, her thoughts on the new preacher, and how she and Bianca had talked to Miss Bensimmons before church, and that they were all sure that the congregation would enjoy Bianca’s return to the choir.

When she said this Bianca’s mother caught her eye in the mirror. “You talked to her about joining the choir again?”  
Bianca nodded. “Yes, Mom. I’ll be helping her out with the young kids.”

Once she’d helped Mrs. Warner in and fixed her a plate, she saw her brother.

Anthony raised an eyebrow at her. She shook her head, smiled a little, feeling young. He made the face of Crucified Jesus at her, and Bianca laughed into her hand. Then she went around with the pitcher of iced tea and topped up everyone glasses but his.

Later he comes up to her in the kitchen. “Yo, sis. You haven’t been in your bedroom yet, have you?”

“Nah, I got in and have - wait, did you do something to it?”

“Not me, Bee.”

She ran down the hallway and threw open the door, stopping short as she began to walk in.

The baby piano was back. In her room, on her bed.

Her brother knocked on the door frame.

Bianca didn’t turn around. She always hated him seeing her cry. Taking a shuddering breath, she said, “Mom found it?”

“Nah.” Antony kept his voice low. Maybe college had taught him that. “Pop. Went to every Goodwill and thrift store in Pennsylvania. Or so he makes out.”

 

Bianca and Mrs. Warner went to visit her Grandma in the care home. Mrs. Warner did her Grandma’s face, getting Bianca to pass her implements from the huge make-up case she’d brought with them. They talked about what nail polish Grandma wanted, frosted pink or fire engine red. Grandma chose red, like Bianca knew she would.

Bianca rubbed lotion into her Grandma’s feet and sang. Mrs. Warner had done their faces to match, and when she looked up to her face she could see her own eyes glittering, gold and blue.

Grandma saw her looking and broke off her chatter with Mrs. Warner. “Bianca, have you decided what you’re going to do about it?”

Bianca hadn’t been listening to their conversation, so she didn’t know what part of her life they were talking about. But she knew the answer.

“Yes.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to S. for the beta work - any remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> This is dedicated to A.


End file.
